(Rebecca's POV)
The last time. That's what I told him on the phone. Four words, and I meant every one.
The mountain villa is strung with lights. White ones — looped along the eaves, threaded through the bare dogwood by the front steps. Lisa's idea, probably. She likes the house to look like it's expecting someone worth the effort.
The night is cold. Near-freezing. My breath leaves in thin clouds that disappear before my chin.
I hold the photo book against my ribs — small, hand-bound, the cover a scrap of linen I sewed myself because buying a cover felt wrong for something made of attention. Four seasons of Lisa's garden. Her roses in May. Her bench in October, first leaves banked against the legs. The frost on the ivy in January, shot through the kitchen window on a morning I came to b
